


What You Don't Realise

by CykaSpace



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-09-22 22:24:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17068286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CykaSpace/pseuds/CykaSpace
Summary: "I've never had any 'friends', you know." Sherlock examined his fingernails as he spoke, purposely avoiding eye-contact with the man he was speaking to. John snorted sarcastically and turned."Oh, believe me, I know."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> FBSRO

Sherlock Holmes opened his window widely out into the cold London air and sniffed. Obviously there had been rain that evening as the air held a sort of damp musk to it. Leaning out, Sherlock spotted a black bird flying in his direction. Books, microscopes and all sorts toppled over in Sherlock's wake as he leant further out the window to achieve a better view of the bird. It was the first black-bird of the evening. The bedroom door clicked open and in shuffled a confused and disheveled John Watson. "Sherlock?" John's voice sounded from the doorway, thick with sleep. "What're you doing?" Sherlock glanced behind and saw John, his blond hair tousled and his entire demeanour speaking 'tired'.

"Bored," Sherlock replied simply and went back to his bird watching. John nodded and scratched his jaw.

"Right, well, could you keep it down? I don't appreciate being woken up at two in the morning." A grunt sounded from Sherlock and, with that, John sighed and exited the madman's room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

John stared boredly at the soup in front of him, stirring tiredly at the thick, red mixture. Sherlock had been out on some mundane 'case' which involved finding an old lady's cat which had, quite obviously, run away. John had thought about visiting Mrs. Hudsen but decided against it as it was fairly late. So there he sat, in a flat with some old re-run hammer-house horror movie from the early seventies buzzing mutely in the background. John wasn't necessarily watching the movie per se, it was more so to cover up for the deafening silence prominently screaming in his ears. Lifting the spoon to his lips, John took a sip of now cold soup and gazed at the sink full of Sherlock's junk, wishing that Sherlock would just  _for onc_ e clean up after himself. Once again, however, it was left up to John to do everything.

"John!" John jolted awake suddenly, now painfully aware that he'd fallen asleep for a few hours as it was now a dull purple-ish colour outside and also aware that, when he'd fallen asleep, his jumper sleeve had dipped into his soup, now a weird, soggy red stain that he'd, inevitably, have to hand-wash himself.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John, it's me. Now, when I was out finding that lady's cat, I-"

"Sherlock?" John interrupted, peeling off his jumper and wiping his eyes with his palms. Sherlock stared at John expectantly.

"How long have you been out finding this woman's cat?" Sherlock's brow dipped in thought.

"Well, I don't know, an hour, two hours maybe. Anyway, what I found out was that the cat actually hadn't run away, it was  _stolen_ ," Sherlock explained with great enthusiasm. John cocked an eyebrow.

"So...?" Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

"This means that the case was  _completely_ different to what I'd originally thought it was!" Sherlock raised his arms above his head, quite obviously expecting a round of applause from John. John simply stared blankly at Sherlock.

"And that makes a difference because...?" Sherlock let out a frustrated grunt and threw up his arms in frustration.

"God, you're so  _simple minded_!" Sherlock yelled, and walked off into his room, slamming the door behind him.

"Okay then," John muttered and picked up his spoiled soup, scooping out the mixture into the bin, shoving Sherlock's microscopes and Petri dishes out of the way and placing his bowl into the sink. After running some hot water and squirting some lemon-scented washing-up liquid into the sink, John began scrubbing at week's worth of dishes, bowls and cutlery, grimacing as his hands graced some sort of left-over food.

"John!" Sherlock called from his room, a slight whine in his voice. John let out a small 'Oh, God, what now?', folding the newspaper he was reading and neatly setting it onto the coffee table.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" He called back. There came a small metallic click from Sherlock's room before he finally answered, "Come here for a moment." John frowned and hesitantly stood up from his chair, walking in slow, deliberate steps to Sherlock's room. Gripping the doorknob with a steady hand, John twisted it and pushed the door open. Sherlock sat crossed-legged on his floor, his handgun pointing directly at John.

"What would you do if I were to, without warming, aim my gun at you?" Sherlock asked with a blank expression. "What would you  _feel_?" John backed away slightly, his eyes wide and his mouth a little agape.

"I would," John glanced around the room for something,  _anything_  that could serve as some form of defense. Not finding anything, John continued.

"I would ask you what made you want to shoot me." John gulped. Sherlock cocked his head to one side, his face still as blank as before.

"What would you feel, John? How do you feel now?"

Silence.

"...scared. I feel-  _would_  feel scared." Sherlock dropped the gun and pulled over a small notebook and pen, scribbling down some notes, looking up at John and scribbling down some more.

"Okay, John. You can go now." John stared at Sherlock dumbfoundedly.

"What just happened?"

"I was seeing how you would react if I pointed a gun at you. For research. Honestly, John, I thought you would have realised that by now," Sherlock answered.

"But  _wh_ y?" John asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

"Because I needed to see the difference between how you react with me pointing a gun at you versus how you react to other people pointing a gun at you. And, if you must know, the results are quite telling." John shook his head and turned on his heel.

"You're crazy," he muttered. Sherlock snorted.

"So I've been told."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

John awoke to the strong smell of coffee, bacon, toast and eggs - not the usual smell of phosphorous and burning metal. It was a welcome, albeit odd, change to his morning. John stretched and yawned in his bed. As he rose to his feet, John noticed something...differentabout the air, as stupid as it sounded to himself and probably to anybody else if he were to tell them. He couldn't quite pin-point it but something just felt off about the whole thing. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear the thoughts from his mind, John walked over to his bathroom for a shower. Memories from last night flooded his mind and John replayed what Sherlock had said to him back in his head on a seemingly endless loop.  _'The results are quite telling'._ What did Sherlock mean by that? Maybe John shouldn't look too closely into these things. After all, Sherlock did have a tendency to play tricks with people (some may even go as far to say that he manipulates them, but John tends to stray from that word). Anyway, why should he care? It's not like it actually effects him, does it? No. So John should just stop worrying about it and have his goddamned shower!

Once he'd finished his shower (John hadn't really cleared his mind fully about everything but it did help a little), John changed into a plain shirt, oatmeal-coloured jumper and a pair of jeans. The pleasant smell was still in the air and John decided to follow it to the kitchen.

"Good morning, love," Mrs. Hudsen chirped.

"Morning, Mrs. Hudsen. Have you seen Sherlock? I kind of need to talk to him," John asked. Mrs. Hudsen scooped the last of the food onto the plate and handed it to John, along with a cup of coffee.

"Yes, dear, he just popped out to get something. He said he'd be back in a few minutes," Mrs. Hudsen replied. As John sat down at the kitchen table, Mrs. Hudsen added,"I heard you two last night." John coughed and swallowed his mouthful of egg.

"Sorry?"

"Well, I didn't really hear you. Sherlock told me what happened," she rephrased. John coughed a little and asked,"What did he tell you?"

"Well, I'd heard Sherlock messing around with his gun and then call your name so, this morning, I asked him what he was doing," Mrs. Hudsen began. "He told me that he was experimenting with people's reactions and wanted to see how you would react to him pointing a gun at you. That's all he told me before rushing out." John nodded and took a bite of his bacon.

"Why the breakfast, then? Not that I'm ungrateful for it." Mrs. Hudsen smiled at John and started on washing the dishes.

"I thought that you might need something nice after having a gun pointed at you." Just then, Sherlock came walking into the living room and collapsed tiredly onto the sofa.

"Hello, Sherlock. Did you find what you needed?" Mrs. Hudsen called, turning off the tap on the sink and drying her hands.

"You don't mind finishing the dishes, do you?" She asked as she passed John on her way to the living room. John shook his head and bit into a buttery slice of toast.

"Yes. I did," Sherlock replied. "John, could you come here?"

"Just let me finish my breakfast first," John called back.

"What we're you looking for, dear?"

"Some new clothes. I decided to buy some different styles to see how they looked. I've chosen some new colours, too," Sherlock explained.

"That's a lovely idea. Well, I'd better leave you two to it, then. Tell me if you need anything!" Mrs. Hudsen called as she walked back to her flat.

  
"John, can I get your opinion on some of these clothes?" Sherlock asked. Placing his dirty dish and mug in the sink, John replied with,"Sure." As he turned around, he saw Sherlock pulling out an assortment of clothes ranging from pink shirts and cream jumpers to black skinny jeans and orange Converse.

  
"Why all the new clothes?" John asked, walking over to Sherlock.

"Experiment. A follow-up to how people react in different circumstances." John nodded and began unfolding a few shirts and looking at them.

"Which combination should I start off with?" John thought for a moment before picking up a combination of clothes: a lipstick-pink, cotton shirt; navy skinny jeans and a pair of peach Converse, handing it to Sherlock who rolled his eyes.

"I hope you'll never go into fashion," he muttered and kicked off his shoes. John didn't know whether to look away or watch. Inside, he knew he should look away but he couldn't bring himself to. Sherlock seemed to notice this as he undid the buttons on his purple shirt and smirked at John. Once his shirt was off, he motioned for John to pass him the new one.

"Come on, John, I haven't got all day," Sherlock groaned and snapped his fingers. Although he did enjoy all the attention, Sherlock was becoming a little irritable. John shook his head and extended his hand and gave the shirt to Sherlock. Once he'd buttoned the shirt up, Sherlock began unbuttoning his trousers. John had to turn away then. Obviously, Sherlock noticed and John heard that baritone chuckle.

"Done. John, the shoes." John picked up the shoes and handed them to him.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. John stared dumbly at Sherlock. Despite the odd colour choice, John thought that Sherlock looked great.

"They, um...they suit you," John managed to choke out. Sherlock smirked.

"Right. Onto the others."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

Needless to say, the two-and-a-half hours of Sherlock changing into different items of clothing had left John somewhat shaken as he climbed into bed that night. Sherlock had obviously gotten the results he'd wanted because, once he'd run out of clothes to try on, he thanked John with a knowing tone in his voice and trotted off to his room with the clothes in his hands. The rest of the evening had been an uncomfortable train-wreck; making John look like an absolute git. Sherlock had sauntered about the flat, flaunting his new favourite outfit (a smokey-grey cotton shirt, indigo skinny jeans and a pair of spruce-brown platforms) and a seductive smirk.

"So, John, what do you think was my best outfit was?" Sherlock had teased over dinner. He'd decided to skip dinner that evening and had, instead, opted for watching John as he ate from where Sherlock himself sat upon the kitchen counter. 

"Probably the black shirt, purple skinny jeans and white Converse," John had replied shortly. He really didn't want to talk about this. He just wanted to eat his chicken and vegetable Chow Mein without being pestered about which shirt he liked best. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock scribble down some notes into the same notebook he'd used when he pointed a gun at John.

"What were your favourite casual clothes?" Sherlock had asked. John huffed.

"I don't know, Sherlock. The pastel-pink t-shirt and grey jogging bottoms?" John had surprised himself with how many outfits he remembered and it seemed to intrigue Sherlock as his scribbling became more frantic.

"Of course, you liked most of the outfits I tried on," Sherlock had quipped. John arose from the dining-room chair and placed his bowl into the sink. He'd do the washing-up later.

"What do you mean?" John asked, his voice monotonous. Sherlock hopped down from the counter and ambled over to John.

"I could tell that I had your attention when I was changing. You barely looked away from me." Sherlock rested his chin on John's shoulder.

"Sherlock, come on. I just liked the clothes," John whined. He felt Sherlock smirk and walk away, probably to scribble something into his stupid notebook.

"I'm going to bed now," John declared as he began walking away from the kitchen.

"Alright. Thank you for your help today, John," Sherlock called, barely looking up from his notebook.

Sleep didn't come easy to John that night. All things considered, it wasn't really a surprise to John that he laid awake for around two hours before finally falling asleep. He was tired - of course he was - but he couldn't drift off. Why was Sherlock doing this? An experiment was the reason he'd told John but he (John) felt that there was something more to it (and if his gut feelings were anything to go by, there was most definitely something more to it). 

"John? John?" John turned over in his bed and sat up, groaning and rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

"Sherlock?" He called out. There was a shuffling of feet before a reply.

"Yes." Silence. Neither parties said a word.

"Do you want to come in?" John offered. His door clicked open and in stepped Sherlock.

"What is it?" He asked, his voice stern. Sherlock closed the door behind him and walked over to John's bed, perching on the end corner.

"You were screaming." John's face softened. He'd never seen Sherlock look vulnerable in this way before, even if it was just because he was concerned for John.

"Oh," John whispered. Sherlock sighed loudly and faced John.

"If my recent experiment has been making you feel uncomfortable, let me know. I just thought it would be something to get on with, seeing as Lestrade hasn't given us any cases recently," Sherlock sighed. "I'm not sure if you were screaming because of Afghanistan or because of me but I'm...you know." Sherlock gestured with his hands in place of saying  _that one word_. John was taken aback. Although Sherlock hadn't directly said 'I'm sorry', John still felt that the words were meaningful. The fact that Sherlock had come up to his room really early in the morning, addressed that what he'd done may have upset John _and_  apologised for it...well John was more than grateful.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"You're smiling."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

Sherlock nodded and stood up, walking over to John's bedroom door and opening it slightly.

"Wait!" John called out, maybe a little _too_  desperately. Sherlock jumped slightly and turned to face John.

"Do you, um, want to stay? You seem a bit out of it as well," John suggested. Closing the door behind him, Sherlock walked over to the other side of John's bed and stood there a little awkwardly. John shuffled over a little and patted the space next to him.

"I'm not a dog, John. I do know where to sit," Sherlock muttered and rolled his eyes. Once Sherlock had gotten comfortable, a stifling silence filled the air. Sherlock cleared his throat and all of John's attention was focused on him, like a tiger sizing up its prey. John waited patiently for Sherlock to speak, thanking him silently for breaking the tension.

"What was your dream about, then?"

Well.

At least he said something.

"Afghanistan again," John mumbled. He didn't really want to talk about this right now. He just wanted to go to sleep. John didn't even know why he'd invited Sherlock to stay.

"So it wasn't my fault?" Sherlock asked, his face lightening up only slightly.

"Well, no. But I have been thinking about it," John answered and turned to face Sherlock.

"Oh. What have you been thinking about?" John searched Sherlock's voice for a hint of malice or disgust but found none. Sighing, John began.

"The pointing the gun at me thing was fine, but you took it too far with the whole clothes thing." Sherlock frowned.

"Why? Wouldn't the gun have made you more uncomfortable or scared?" Sherlock really didn't seem to have a clue (either that or he was a  _very_ good actor).

"I just felt uncomfortable when you were changing. Like, say for example, if you were a kid and you walked in on a Disneyland character having a smoke break. It just felt like it was something that nobody was ever meant to see," John explained. It honestly was a shock to see Sherlock willingly topless (not that John would ever make him take his shirt off, that would be ridiculous and, quite frankly, immoral).

"Right. I see where you're coming from. How did you feel about the gun?" John thought for a moment. Sure, he'd felt scared and worried but he also felt a sickening betrayal. Why would his best friend shoot him after everything they'd gone through?

"Betrayed. Worry and fear were also there but I mainly felt betrayed." John noticed Sherlock's face change. What was it? Superciliousness? No. Anger? Definitely not. Hold on, hold on, John had it. It was  _sympathy_. Wait. No, that couldn't be right. John tried to find another emotion but sympathy was the only one that fit.

"I should just stop the experiment while I'm at it," Sherlock sighed. "No doubt you're angry with me?" John moved closer to Sherlock and smiled.

"I am, yes. But when aren't I? You shot our Goddamned wall!" John joked. Sherlock's lips twitched up a bit and John smiled again.

"Well, I suppose you want me gone so you can sleep." Sherlock began moving to stand up but John grabbed his dressing robe.

"Can you stay? You're warm," John pleaded. He didn't care if he sounded desperate anymore, he just wanted to go to sleep with someone next to him and if that person just happened to be Sherlock then so be it! It didn't matter that they were both men, they could handle it like adults. Anyway, it wasn't  as if they were going to do anything. They could handle sleeping together, it was fine. John was fine.

"Uh.." Sherlock hesitated.  _Oh God_ , John thought, _I forgot how uncomfortable he is about_   _somebody **touching** him, let alone  **sleeping** with him! _John was about to retract his offer when Sherlock climbed back into bed and turned off the light.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock mumbled into his pillow. John sat still for a moment before slinking under the covers and rolling over so both of their backs were facing each other. 

"Night, Sherlock."

 

John moved slightly, snuggling closer to the warm pillow in front of him. It smelt like stale cigarettes and coffee, kind of like Sherlock's scent. 

Christ, it was Sherlock!

"John?" Sherlock's sleep-ridden voice was slurred and deeper than usual.

"Uh, yeah?"

"You do realise that it's me you're hugging?"

"Yeah..." There was a pause. John didn't want to open his eyes for fear of being humiliated. He felt Sherlock shake a little as he chuckled.

"Am I comfortable?" Sherlock asked. John released a breath he didn't know he was holding; glad that Sherlock was reacting somewhat positively.

"Mmhm," he mumbled into, what he thought, was Sherlock's chest. There came a knock on their flat door and Sherlock raced out of the bed to answer it.

"John, hurry up! It's Lestrade with a case!"

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

All three men had arrived at Scotland Yard at around the same time (John and Sherlock riding in a cab and Lestrade taking the police car).

"What case have you got for me?" Sherlock had pestered Lestrade with questions of a similar calibre since they'd arrived and John could tell that Lestrade was losing his temper at an alarming rate.

"There's been a spate of murders around London. The only link to them is that all of the victims are unemployed," Lestrade began. John took a glance at Sherlock who seemed to almost be jumping with excitement.

"Anywhere we should check first?" John asked. Lestrade handed John a slip of A4 paper and nodded.

"Try here. Three of the four victims were fired from there. Apparently, the boss was far too demanding and they'd all just snapped," Lestrade explained and stood up from his seat.

"Right. I think we'll go and look at our murder scene before we do anything else." Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back and turned swiftly on his heels, stalking over to the door.

"I can only give you about five to ten minutes there before you'll have to go," Lestrade called after them. "And Anderson and Donovan are there!"

"Hey Freak, John," Sally had 'greeted' both men when they arrived at the crime scene, lifting up the Police Line - Do Not Cross tape for them to enter.

"Donovan," Sherlock nodded in Sally's direction and carried on walking forwards.

"Sally," John smiled and chased after Sherlock. Rolling her eyes, Sally lowered the tape and walked in the direction of the body.

"Oh, fantastic. The great Sherlock Holmes has arrived. We're saved!" Anderson yelled and raised his arms above his head.

"Anderson, while I do appreciate your sarcasm, please try not to make yourself look like an idiot whilst doing so," Sherlock sighed and pushed past him into the flat where the body was. John ran in an attempt to catch up with Sherlock.

"What did you mean by 'make yourself look like an idiot'?" John asked once he was back at Sherlock's side. Sherlock smirked and chuckled.

"His flies were undone. Easy mistake for idiots like him." Sherlock looked down at John. "And idiots like you, apparently." John's head snapped down and he quickly pulled up the zipper on his jeans, his face a bright red. Sherlock began laughing quietly and continued up the stairs.

"But Anderson was wearing his crime scene suit. How could you tell?"

"The zip was poking the suit. It's quite obvious, I'm rather surprised you didn't notice it. Aha! Here we are." Sherlock pushed past the Crime Scene Investigators and to the body of the fourth victim.

"Well? What can you tell so far?" John asked after a few minutes of Sherlock examining the body.

"She was unemployed, that's for sure. Early twenties and, judging by her hands, an avid guitar player. Enjoyed sports, mainly running indicated by her legs and shoes. She didn't really care about her appearance, as evidenced by her casual top, probably a favourite due to a lot of the colour being drained and muted. I think I know where she lived, as well. Near Camden, probably. Many similar tops and jeans are sold there. We should go there first." Sherlock arose from his crouching position and grabbed John's wrist, practically dragging him down the stairs.

"Sherlock! Don't you think we should tell Lestrade first before we go rushing off?" John called. Sherlock glanced at him from over his shoulder and yelled back, "I've never done it before, why start now?" John wondered why Sherlock had decided to hold his wrist while they ran out of the building. He'd always just run off and hope that John would catch up. John decided not to worry about it. They had bigger things to focus on now.

"Taxi!" Sherlock nearly screamed as he waved his right hand (the one that was not holding John's wrist) in the air. The black cab stopped and Sherlock hopped in, dragging John with him. John fell into the cab with a dull 'thud', landing half on Sherlock and half on the seat. Finally (after Sherlock had told the cab driver where he wanted to go), he let go of John's wrist and moved over slightly so John could sort himself out. John sat up and brushed himself off.

"So what are we going to do once we're at Camden? Knock on every door until we find out where the girl lived?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"I wondered when that would come up. No, what we're going to do is take a look around Camden Market and see if any of the shops sold similar clothes to the ones the girl was wearing," Sherlock explained in a hushed tone. After the incident with the 'Pink Lady', John and Sherlock had both decided to keep their voices hushed. John nodded and leaned in closer to Sherlock.

"Do you have an idea about where she lived? I mean, whether she lived in a flat, house, things like that," John whispered. Sherlock seemed to consider this for a second before dully shaking his head.

"I've been trying to figure that out since we left that place. I think she may have lived in a cheap flat but I can't be sure." John's phone beeped, shattering the silence that had been hanging in the air for a few minutes. John opened the message and skimmed the text. Groaning, he placed it back into his pocket and leaned against the window. Sherlock moved over to John.

"What's wrong? What was that text?"

"Lestrade just texted me that we need to go back to Scotland Yard to hand in our findings," John replied. Sherlock grunted loudly but didn't protest, instead opting for telling the taxi driver to drive to Scotland Yard.

"Why do we always have to do everything he wants?" Sherlock sulked. John smiled at him.

"We're lucky Lestrade even lets us into the investigation. The least we can do is do as he says." Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

"You're wrong, John. The least we can do is nothing," Sherlock muttered.

"What did you find?" Lestrade questioned once the two men arrived at his office. Sherlock had explained that the girl probably lived in Camden and was a frequent shopper at Camden market.

"Right. We'll investigate around there. Go home and get some rest, now, you look like you need it. And, Sherlock," Lestrade added. Sherlock turned back to face him. "Please try not to assault John again." Sherlock and John both left the station to go home, Sherlock in a rage.

"I don't understand why Anderson told Lestrade. It's not like it was anything big," Sherlock complained. "All I did was grab your wrist and he's classing it as assault? For Christ's sake, that man needs to get a life." Sherlock had been complaining since they'd left Scotland Yard.

"It's fine, Sherlock. Lestrade and I aren't even going to do anything. It didn't hurt, either," John assured him. Once they'd reached home, John had made himself and Sherlock a cup of tea and flicked on the television to some game show.

"But why would Anderson tell Lestrade? I don't understand."

"You have been annoying him for ages, maybe he just snapped?" John suggested. Sherlock shrugged and sipped his tea.

"Lestrade texted me that I couldn't work on the case anymore," Sherlock sighed. John turned to face him.

"You never told me that," he said. Sherlock pouted and shrugged.

"Why? Was it because of me?"Sherlock shrugged again.

"I don't know. Maybe." They both sat in silence.

"Why did you grab me?" John asked.

"I was excited. I was having fun. Now that case is going to be delayed by ages because I can't work on it now."John nodded.

"Did I hurt you?" Sherlock inquired.

"A little, but nothing I couldn't handle. Anyway, you were actually quite gentle." Sherlock turned away and stared at the TV. Maybe he's just tired, thought John and he continued to watch the television. Glancing over at Sherlock revealed that he was tightly wrapped up in a fluffy, baby-blue blanket with the tea John had made held tightly in his hands. And, although he was yelling at the TV, in that moment, Sherlock seemed small and vulnerable, like John had to protect him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

Sherlock had fallen asleep quite quickly since he hadn't slept in ages, his empty mug of tea placed on the floor next to his feet. John looked over at him and smiled to himself. Sherlock looked even more precious and fragile when asleep - his thin, pale frame curled up cosily on the sofa. John contemplated whether he should move him or not. He did look comfortable there but, when he woke up, he'd probably complain about being uncomfortable. Finally choosing the former, John walked over to Sherlock and wrapped his arms under Sherlock's legs and shoulders, lifting him up like a child and carrying him to his room. Sherlock stirred slightly and his brows furrowed. Once John had gotten into Sherlock's room, he pulled back the covers with his foot and laid Sherlock down, finally pulling the covers up to his chin. Sherlock smiled in his sleep and nuzzled into his blanket.

"Night Sherlock," John whispered.

"Mm," Sherlock slurred. Smiling to himself, John walked out of Sherlock's room and, finally, made his way up to his own.

"Good morning Sherlock," John mumbled as he walked into the kitchen the next morning. Sherlock, from his position on the sofa, muttered a similar greeting and went back to reading.

"What book are you reading?" John asked as he dumped the tea-bag into the bin. Sherlock glanced over at John but swiftly went back to his reading.

"A compilation of Edgar Allan Poe's poems. They aren't too bad, actually." John walked over to Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder and read a line of one of the poems - Hear the mellow wedding bells-Golden bells!

"Seems like a nice one. Which poem is that, then?" John asked and sat down in his armchair.

"The Bells," Sherlock answered. John let out a small 'ah' and sipped his hot tea.

"Did you put me to bed last night?" Sherlock asked, not once looking up from the book. John swallowed.

"Yeah. I thought that if you slept on the sofa you'd be uncomfortable." Sherlock - finally - looked up from his book and at John.

"That was very nice, John," Sherlock acknowledged him with a nod and went back to reading. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock seemed to be acting a little more humanely than usual. John's brain was on overdrive - coming up with random scenarios in which Sherlock either gets given some sort of drug to make him a 'human' or Sherlock taking a class on 'How To  **Not**  Be An Asshole'.

"John?" Sherlock broke John's stupor.

"Mm?"

"You're spilling tea down your sweater." Sherlock jutted his chin in John's direction and John quickly looked down at himself. A few expletives were yelled by John as he nearly threw the mug on the floor and ripped off his jumper. Sherlock watched on silently; a smirk playing on his lips. Once John had finally become fairly tranquil and had thrown his jumper into the washing machine, he walked back over to his armchair with a slight slump in his posture and a red tint in his cheeks.

"John, I don't mean to knitpick but that jumper was hand-wash only. Did you know that?" Sherlock stated. John groaned and rubbed his temples.

"I don't really care at the momen- hang on." Sherlock cocked his head and watched John intently as he (John) spoke. "How did you know it was hand-wash only?"John was highly confused and really didn't appreciate Sherlock's condescending sigh and the slow closing of his book.

"I keep regular tabs on you, John. What sort of friend would I be if I didn't know what sort of jumpers you wore?" Sherlock replied. John let out a gruff huff.

"Maybe you'd be a normal friend?" John glared at Sherlock.

"Alright, John, no need to raise your voice," Sherlock tutted. At this point, John was going to do quite the opposite.

"No need to raise my voice? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, get your act together! You really need to work on your people skills. How do you not know what people are feeling but you know how someone died in a matter of seconds?" John yelled. Sherlock recoiled slightly but remained almost emotionless.

"John, you know I've never really liked people. They're incompetent and simple and-"

"Maybe that's why people don't like you! You always feel the need to deduct and analyse everyone you meet. Maybe if you just gave them the time of day, then you might find that it's not them that are incompetent but that it's you!" John stormed past Sherlock and grabbed his coat, running downstairs and out of the door into the rainy London street. What was wrong with Sherlock that made John hate him and love him at the same time?

Wait.

 _Love_ him? John's never loved him in his life! He's not gay, not at all. John had experimented in college once or twice...okay, maybe more than that but that was besides the point. John didn't love Sherlock. Sure, he had porcelain skin, ocean-blue eyes and plump, pale, cupid-bow lips but John Hamish Watson was not gay.

So why did he fall out with him over a jumper?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

"What can I get you, sir?" The blond lady across the counter asked a tired and pissed-off John.

"A flat white and chocolate brownie to go, please," John answered and fished through his coat pockets for his wallet. Finally pulling it out, John handed the girl a fiver, took his brownie and coffee and headed out of the shop. John headed to the nearest library and, once he'd finished his brownie and coffee, headed inside for a much-needed break and some much-needed warmth. The bell on the door jingled its merry tune as John entered and headed for the Crime Fiction section, picking up a book and racing for the chair in the corner of the room. As John was power-walking to the chair, he bumped into someone and they dropped their books. John turned and hurried back over to the person.

"I am so sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going," the person apologised as they quickly gathered up their books. John picked up the remainder of them and handed them back to the person.

"It's not your fault, honestly. I just saw a seat and wasn't looking," John chuckled awkwardly.

"Oh my God. John, is that you?" The person, who John now saw was a lady about his height, gasped. John raised an eyebrow before things snapped into place.

"Sally? Sally Gold?" He asked back.

"Yeah! Wow, how are you?" Sally grinned happily and tucked a few strands of aqua hair behind her pierced ears.

"Yeah, I'm alright. Had a bit of an argument with my roommate today but he's not the easiest person to live with. How are you?" John replied. Sally gave John a sympathetic smile but didn't push the matter any further and, for that, John was grateful.

"I'm doing really well, actually. My brother's coming down from Cornwall to visit me this week so that should be fun. I'm planning on showing him around London when he gets here." John nodded at her.

"Could I get your number so we could keep in touch, maybe?" John asked after much deliberation. Sally smiled and nodded.

"Sure," she replied and pulled out a notebook and pen from her leather jacket and gracefully jotted down her number. Handing it to John, she asked, "Aren't you Sherlock Holmes' flatmate?" John smiled and shook his head.

"Yeah. Great when it comes to murder cases, not so great when it comes to people." Sally giggled and covered her mouth so as to stifle any noise that she made.

"Trouble in paradise?" She joked.

"You could say that, yes," John laughed quietly.

"Well, I'd better get going. Don't think my cat will appreciate me being fashionably late." John chuckled lightly and smiled.

"Sure. I don't think Sherlock would want me to be fashionably late, either, but he can wait. I'll text you when I get the chance." With that, John and Sally bid each other goodbye and walked their separate ways; Sally checking out her books and walking out of the building and John, finally, to his seat to read.

 

John had spent half-an-hour reading but soon decided that it would be best to go home. The thought of Sherlock being there filled John with dread but also familiarity; Sherlock behaving all annoyed and socially naive was the norm in their flat and if Sherlock were to be kind and reasonable, John would want the normal Sherlock back. Sherlock's attitude and behaviour, to John, was a guilty pleasure and, as much as he hated to admit it, he found it somewhat comforting in a strange way. So John stood up, placed the book back and walked out of the library. The icy air nipped John's nose and cheeks as he headed back to the flat. He was nervous, to say the least. What would Sherlock say to him when he got back? Would he be angry? Sad? Hell, would Sherlock even  _be_ there when John got back? If he was, then great. If not, then it was probably even better - John could compose himself before Sherlock got back from wherever he was. John eventually reached the flat and walked inside and up the stairs to the living room.

"Hello?" John called out as he hung up his coat on the peg. There came no reply and John breathed a sigh of relief. Even if Sherlock was in his room, he seemed in no state of mind to talk so John had time to relax and think. Clicking on the TV and sitting in his armchair, John began to think about what to say to Sherlock when he saw him. Would he say sorry? Well, no, it was as much as his fault as it was Sherlock's so that wouldn't do. John's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock's bedroom door opening.

"John?" Sherlock coughed out. John looked over to the tall man and his eyes widened in shock. Sherlock leant against the counter with his hair plastered to his sweaty, pale face with dark, purplish bags underneath his eyes.

"What happened? I was gone for literally an hour!" John exclaimed as he ran over to his flatmate. Sherlock coughed into his hand and stumbled over to John in a vain attempt to meet him half-way.

"I-I don't know. When you left, I began to feel sick," Sherlock explained hoarsely. Pressing the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead, guilt filled John in floods and he himself began feeling nervous.  _This_ was John's fault. Sherlock wouldn't have to have been alone in this dire state if  _John_ had only stayed with Sherlock and not pissed off because of a jumper. A  _jumper._ A jumper could be replaced. Sherlock could not.

"Come on, let's get you to bed. Your temperature is really high. I think I have some medicine in the bathroom," John began rambling on as he wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist and walked him to his bedroom and, eventually, his bed. Sherlock began coughing and John propped up his pillows so Sherlock didn't choke.

"John?" Sherlock called out weakly. John popped his head back around the door and nodded towards Sherlock.

"Yeah?"

"Where were you?" Sherlock started to cough brazenly and John decided not to leave him alone at this point in time. Walking carefully back into the room, John perched upon the edge of Sherlock's bed and smiled soothingly at him; all hostility from earlier washed away with one look of Sherlock's tired, half-lidded eyes.

"I went to the library after I had a coffee and brownie. I also saw an old friend from secondary school, Sally Gold," John replied. Sherlock nodded but seemed distracted.

"Something on your mind?" He asked. Sherlock looked up at John and sighed.

"Yes. I upset you and I'm feeling guilty. Even more so now that you'll have to take care of me because I'm sick and it's scaring me," Sherlock sighed. 

"That's really nice of you, Sherlock. You don't need to feel scared, though, it's a natural emotion. I was angry earlier but now's not really the time to be," John explained. Sherlock began coughing again and John gently shook his shoulder in reassurance.

"I'll get that medicine for you."    


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

Sherlock was not in a good state and John blamed himself for it, honestly. He'd beaten himself up for something he couldn't have stopped even if he were there when it happened. Sherlock had told John not to fuss over him but it was clear as daylight that Sherlock wasn't fit to look after himself. It wasn't anything serious, a simple stomach infection, in fact, but it seemed to be effecting his work and mental state so John called Lestrade and told him Sherlock's situation, to which he replied with an 'okay' and a hope that Sherlock made a quick recovery. John handed Sherlock a paracetamol and a glass of water once he'd returned from the shops. Sherlock glared at John for making such a fuss but obediently took the pill and washed it down with the water John had provided him with.

"How long do you think I'll be like this for?" Sherlock asked hoarsley. John shook his head and shrugged.

"I honestly don't know, Sherlock. Maybe a few more days." Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms.

"Why did you tell Lestrade I was ill? I could've gone into work!" To prove his point, Sherlock began sitting up in his bed and climbing out, only to become dizzy the moment he stood up and having to steady himself on the wall.

"See?" Sherlock glared at John as he slowly pushed him back down onto his bed.

"Sherlock, you almost fell over just then. But if you think you can work in this condition, then be my guest," John sighed and walked out of the room. Sherlock let his head fall back onto his pillow.

"The man's just insufferable sometimes!" John complained and took an angry gulp of tea. He'd decided to meet up with Sally at her place to get away from Sherlock. Although he did feel bad for leaving him, Sherlock was just becoming a handful and, since he insisted on looking after himself, John had left him to his own devices. Sally smirked but hid it carefully behind her hot chocolate and whipped cream.

"I try to help him and the thanks I get are moody grunts and boisterous obligations to my medical advice."

"You two sound like an old married couple," she quipped and was greeted with a sarcastic smile and a pink marshmallow to the head from John.

"Very funny. Isn't your brother supposed to be visiting?" John skilfully changed the subject from him and Sherlock to Sally's brother. It was a strange feeling for John to refer to him and Sherlock as if they were a pair - an item, if you will. However, he had no time to dwell on the odd observation as Sally began talking.

"Yes, but his girlfriend, Michelle, had an accident involving a golf course and a pond so we've postponed the visit," Sally chuckled absentmindedly as she gazed into the white abyss of cream on her hot drink. John chuckled, too, and took a now much calmer sip of tea.

"I honestly don't think I want to know," he grinned. Sally began laughing loudly and had to quickly swallow a mouthful of hot chocolate otherwise the consequences would involve a burning and sticky John Watson.

"No, you don't!"

Sherlock sneezed loudly but no form of 'bless you' or 'are you alright?' could be heard. Odd, he thought. John would usually make sure he was okay. Shoving the covers and extra blanket John had given him over to one side, Sherlock uneasily climbed out of his bed, using the smooth, cold wall a support, much like a walking stick or cane. Where was John? Sherlock knew that John could hear him even if he was in his own room upstairs so why wasn't he rushing down and ushering Sherlock back into bed like he had previously done? Sherlock managed to reach his door and open it just enough to get through, passing through the kitchen and into the living room. No John in sight.

"John?" Sherlock called out weakly. No reply. "John!" He tried again. Still, no reply. Was  _John_ alright? He'd spent his whole time catering to Sherlock's every needs that he could have possibly forgotten about himself. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt overcome him but quickly tried to pass it off as a simple case of delirium caused by the cold he had. He himself knew, however, that that was not the case.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FBSRO

"Oh, Sherlock, you'd love to meet Sally, she's wonderful!" John said as he entered the flat and hung up his coat.

"Sherlock?" John asked. A loud cough from the bedroom signalled John to Sherlock's whereabouts and he ran to the room. Knocking before he entered, John was greeted with the sight of Sherlock sitting up in his bed with his head in his hands, curly locks framing his pale face.

"Sherlock, what happened?" he asked calmly. Sherlock looked up and squinted.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice scratchy and used. 

"I went out with Sally. I didn't worry you, did I? You didn't need anything?" Sherlock waved a weak, dismissive hand in John's face.

"No, of-of course not," he replied swiftly. Thinking for a moment, he added, "Are you okay?"  John cocked an eyebrow but swiftly returned to his caring and concerned facade.

"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock scrutinised John for a moment before turning away.

"Sherlock..." John tried. Sherlock turned his head to show that he was listening. "You were worried, weren't you?"

"How could I not be when you went out and didn't tell me? I thought you had been attacked!" John gulped. It was rare to see Sherlock in such a state of anger - impatience, yes, but anger, no - and John began to feel uncomfortable. Sherlock humphed and pulled his blankets up higher. 

"Sherlock, I am so sorry," John began. "I didn't realise that you'd worry about me so much." The bob of curly, black locks told John that his friend either wanted him to piss of or that he was acknowledging him. Sadly, John didn't know which it was so he just settled for patting Sherlock on the shoulder and offering to make him some food.

"I'm not hungry," came the somewhat sad response laced with bitterness and slight contempt. Nodding, John left the man in peace. As he closed the door behind him, a thought propelled itself into the front of his mind; Sherlock had cared for him and had cared for him so much as to have an outburst over something so trivial.  _So?_   John's mind asked.  _What does that matter?_ Well, for one thing, it meant that Sherlock wasn't some sort of emotionless robot or the new version of Spock and it also showed that, amongst all of the ice-coldness Sherlock showed everyone, including him, he could possibly have a soft spot for John. John shook his head and walked over to the fridge. Surely there had to be something to eat in there. Finding nothing in particular, John checked the cupboards and decided to microwave some chicken soup. He had considered calling Sally to see how she was. Hey, if he couldn't meet up without being criticised then the least he could do was call. Once he'd taken the bowl from the microwave, John took a seat in his armchair and picked up his mobile from the coffee table, selecting Sally's contact and pressing the 'call' button. The phone rang a few times and John took the opportunity to spoon some soup into his mouth.

"Hello?" Sally's voice rang out as John burnt his tongue on a slice of chicken. A profanity escaped his lips and he grabbed the glass of water he'd set himself earlier. Gulping down the cooling liquid, John heard Sally's raucous giggles from the other end of the line.

"I'm guessing this is John, right?" she laughed. 

"Yeah, that's me," he replied with a chuckle.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah, yeah, I just burnt my tongue on some soup," John explained. 

"You're stupid sometimes, you know that?" Sally joked and John could practically hear the grin on her face.

"I have been told. How come you didn't know it was me before I began yelling at some soup?"

"I dropped my phone in the sink when I was doing the washing up the other day and it keeps buggering up everything so I can't see who's calling me anymore," she laughed. "I was going to sell the old thing, just my luck." John chuckled.

"How's the 'Great Detective', by the way?" Sally asked. John sighed as guilt reared its ugly head around the corner and decided to present him with a swift kick in the stomach.

"He's upset about me meeting up with you and not telling him." Adding, as an afterthought, "I do feel for him, though." On the other end of the line, he heard Sally sigh.

"I'm sorry, John. I didn't know I'd upset your boyfriend," she said, sincerity wrapping its way around her statement.

"We're not a couple, you know. I thought I'd made that clear?" Silence.

"So...you're single?" Sally asked, tension building between the two. John gulped.

"Uh, yeah. Based off of my previous girlfriends, I'd say that I'm destined to be alone-"

"Can I come over?" Sally interrupted.

"Um, okay. Sure, yeah," came the uneasy reply. Sally thanked him quickly and hung up the phone. Oh, God, what would John tell Sherlock? Finishing his soup and placing the empty bowl into the sink, John made his way to Sherlock's bedroom and knocked on the door.

"What is it, John?" came the snappy response.  _Alright_ , thought John,  _I'll be blunt with you._

"Sally, my old Uni roommate, is coming over." There was a pause and a rustling of blankets until Sherlock's door creaked open.

"I'm sorry?" he croaked. Sherlock's hair was a mess and his face was paler than usual but he still kept a confident air about him; towering over John intimidatingly. Still, John stood his ground.

"Sally's coming over," he repeated.

"Another girlfriend?" Sherlock's question was blunt and full of so much poison that it could make an Adder blush. Was Sherlock's question implying that John was easy? John didn't know if Sherlock could even  _think_  something like that, let alone say it. Then again, it probably shouldn't surprise him.

"Well, I don't really know. You see, we talked on the phone and-"

"How can you not know?" Sherlock interjected. Harsh.

"If you let me continue, you'll find out," John said through gritted teeth. "As I was saying, Sally mistook us for a couple and, when I told her we weren't, she seemed to get... _excited_? And asked if she could come round..." John looked away as Sherlock's piercing gaze began to unnerve him. "So I don't know where tonight will lead." Sherlock finally looked away and scoffed. John frowned in anger.

"Care to explain what's so funny?"

"Not really, no," Sherlock answered and swiftly turned on his heals and walked back into his room. Grunting, John began tidying up Sherlock's mess and spraying the rooms with lavender air freshener to mask the scent of whatever Sherlock was working with. He wasn't too sure about this - meeting up with Sally might not be such a good idea, after all, considering how John's last relationships have turned out. There came a knock at the door and John walked over to answer it.

"Um, hey, John," Sally smiled awkwardly. John returned a smile of a similar fashion.

"Hello, Sally. Do you want to come in?" Sally nodded as John moved out of her way.

The tension was killing John and he could tell that it was having the same impact on Sally.

"So, uh...do you want a drink?" John asked. Sally nodded.

"Yeah, please. Do you have any Cola?" 

"Yeah, I think we do. Hold on." John walked towards the kitchen before calling out, "Make yourself comfortable!" Sally walked over to the sofa and sat herself down upon it.

"Nice place," she commented.

"Thanks. Sherlock and I bought it when we first met," John explained, walking back over to his guest and placing the drink down onto the table. Sally thanked him and sipped at her cold beverage.

"So, what did you want to talk about?"John asked.

"I'll be straight with you - do you want to be my boyfriend?" Sally asked. John spluttered for a moment but soon gained his composure.

"Yeah, cool," he finally answered. Grinning, Sally leaned into John and captured his lips with her own.

Trust Sherlock to walk in right at that moment.

"Hello, I'm Sherlock. I'm guessing you're Sally? John's told me all about you," Sherlock greeted the guest as he sauntered over to the pair and held out his hand for Sally to shake. John quickly broke the kiss, feeling like a schoolboy being caught with his girlfriend. Sally smiled at Sherlock, seemingly unperturbed by Sherlock's behaviour. John, on the other hand, had a feeling that Sherlock was up to something.

"I see you're feeling better, then?" John asked. Sherlock turned from Sally and regarded John was a nod.

"Indeed I am. Sally, I am afraid John hasn't told you something. Something most important." John began to feel sick and shot Sherlock with a fierceful glare.

"Oh, what's that?"

"John is gay," Sherlock stated rather simply.

"Is he, now? Well, that doesn't bother me one bit. I've always been told I look a little masculine," Sally laughed.

"Sherlock, I am not gay," John stated and clenched his jaw. "And, Sally, you look nothing like a man, you're beautiful." Sherlock made a loud grunt and stormed off to his room, slamming the door behind him.

"He is a bit of a handful, isn't he?" Sally giggled. Grimacing, John replied with, "He bloody well is."  
  


 


End file.
